


The Adventure of the Red-Haired Laborers

by WarlockWriter



Series: What Might We Deduce About Love? [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockWriter/pseuds/WarlockWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asks John an odd question, forcing the doctor to face their relationship and what it might mean. As he's pondering, a case comes in for them to solve. Case is loosely based on The Adventure of the Red-Headed League.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Red-Haired Laborers

Sherlock was bored again. Not that this came as a surprise to John, who was sitting in his chair, ostensibly reading the paper but actually watching his flat mate pace back and forth across the room, which seemed to shrink with every pass.

He'd ask him to stop, but it never did any good. Mrs. Hudson had the right idea. She'd left twenty minutes earlier to "run some errands." John thought it more likely that she was just running, as far away as possible.

He found himself praying for a knock at the door. Even a boring case would distract Sherlock for a few moments.

Sighing, he went back to trying to read the same article he'd been trying to read for the last hour. Something about a robbery of gold coins. It should have captures his interest, but instead his eyes moved down the page, seeing none of the words, just long legs, moving endlessly.

Suddenly Sherlock threw himself down on the couch. John winced at the protesting springs and prepared himself for the fifty-seventh repetition (today) of "I'm bored."

"John, are you in love with me?"

"I'm sure a case will come along soon," John said, without thinking, just as he'd said fifty-six other times this morning.

Then he blinked, finally processing what Sherlock had really said. "What?"

"Honestly. Don't you ever pay attention?"

"Well, yes, but I thought you asked me if I was in love with you. Since I'm pretty sure that's not what you said..."

"It is."

John blinked again, putting down his paper and struggling to process the question. "Where had that come from?" was of course what he wanted to say, followed by "No, of course not."

Sherlock looked at him, gaze level, eyes unblinking. Some part of John's brain noted that the green was particularly prominent today. He stopped himself from shaking his head to marshal his thoughts. Long ago, he'd learned to keep his gestures to himself. Sherlock analyzed him anyway, but John tried to give him as little as possible.

How to answer? As long as he'd known Sherlock, he'd been telling people they weren't a couple. He still remembered telling Irene Adler, in frustration, that "if anyone still cared, he wasn't gay."

And it was true. He wasn't. He definitely liked women. And yet. And yet, there was something about Sherlock that defied gender and demanded attraction.

Guiltily, he remembered the night of the almost desperate hard-on where the only fantasy that worked was the one with Sherlock's long slender fingers stroking him.

"John! What?"

Oops. Must have let something of that show.

No, lying just wouldn't do. He'd know anyway, and the relationship deserved better.

"Yes, I guess that I do."

"Hah!" Sherlock sat forward, eyes shifting more to blue with the intensity of his gaze. "And for how long?"

Not the response he was expecting. Not the response you ever expected when you tell someone, "Yes, I do love you."

"What does it matter?" He couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice. Probably Sherlock had some private bet going with himself. A tenner on John having fallen for him at least six months ago. Or something like that.

"Because I want to know."

The simplicity of the response disarmed John and forced him to really consider the question. How long had it been? It was hard to say since he’d not really considered it before. He remembered not protesting the assumption of the innkeeper while on the Baskerville case. Certainly at least since then. He remembered the shrill tone in his voice when he'd told Irene he wasn't gay. Yes, probably at least since then, if he was being honest with himself.

He remembered feeling completely alive for the first time in so long during the "Pink" case. Had it really been that long? He had to admit to himself that it might have been.

"Almost from the start, I guess."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "Interesting."

But before John could question him further, the bell rang. One long press. Insistent.

They looked at each other. "Client!" they said in unison.

John was delighted for Sherlock but saddened for himself. It had been an interesting conversation, one he doubted would ever be mentioned again. Which left him in an awkward situation. Now that he was being honest about his feelings, where did that leave him? And them?

***

When John answered the door, he glanced the man up and down. Typical laborer, he thought. A mid-sized man, well-muscled, going just slightly to fat in an ill-fitting suit. His hands were roughened by layers of callouses. The only noteworthy feature was the bright red hair, almost like a dancing flame on the top of his head.

He shook John's hand, palm sweaty. "Doctor Watson, I presume."

"Yes, come right up. Sherlock's waiting." John sent up a silent prayer that the case would be more promising than it looked at first glance.

Upstairs, John waved the man to the couch. Sherlock hadn't moved from his chair, and John claimed the table, opening his laptop, in case he needed to look something up. He firmly told his thoughts to concentrate on the man. No being distracted by earlier conversations.

Sherlock got right to it. "Your story. And don't be boring."

The man blinked. "I'll try, but, well, I'm not sure it's the kind of thing you can help with anyway."

John hid a grin. Actually not a bad tactic with Sherlock. One point to the man.

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently.

"My name's Jabesh Wallace, and I think I've been swindled."

Sherlock's expression didn't change, but John noticed the subtle shift in his body language that signaled "still bored." He mentally urged Jabesh to hurry it up to get to the interesting part.

"You see. I was out of work for a long time, and then I saw this ad in the paper. Said I could get easy work outside." He held up his hands. "I've always done manual labor, so I thought I'd qualify, and I applied. They hired me, and I was assigned to various odd jobs. You know. Cleaning up the parks. Sweeping the streets. That sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but it helped pay the bills."

Sherlock started tapping his foot. The man glanced down and sweat started to bead his forehead. "Well, anyway, it went on for a few weeks, and then one day I reported to work, and there was no one there. The whole office had just closed up. No notice. No nothing. Just work one day and nothing the next."

Sherlock steepled his fingers, and his foot tapped more insistently. Trying to head off the coming explosion, John asked, "Had they promised a certain period of employment, or was it just day-to-day?"

"Well, that's the thing. They never did say, but there were several of us working, and we all agreed it was odd. The previous day, our employer said they'd see us tomorrow, and then boom. Nothing. All signs gone. It was like the office had never been there at all."

Sherlock stood up and stalked to the kitchen. "I understand you're disappointed to lose your job, but there's nothing here that warrants my time.  You were employed. Now you're not."

Jabesh started to stand up. "Well, it's about what I expected anyway, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for agreeing to see me." He started to walk toward the door. John heard Sherlock banging something in the kitchen. He sighed. He'd been so hoping this would turn into a case. Another hour of watching Sherlock pace the flat, and he'd have to find where Mrs. Hudson had found her hiding place. Maybe she had room for one more.

Just as the man reached the doorway, he turned around. "One more thing, though that was definitely odd. All of us laborers had something in common."

Sherlock said nothing, so it was up to John to ask, "And what was that?"

"We all had red hair. And not just kind of red either. There was three of us, and we all had flaming red hair."

Sherlock's face appeared around the kitchen door jamb. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? This changes everything."

Jabesh furrowed his brow. "It does, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course. What was the name of the employment agency that got you the job?"

"Spauldings, but what do they..."

"John..."

John was already typing on his laptop. "On it." A pause. "I've got the address."

Sherlock's long legs took him out of the sitting room in the direction of his bedroom. "Excellent. I'll put my best man on it, Mr. Wallace. Do you have contact information for your fellow laborers?"

"Yes, I think so." He pulled out his phone and started thumbing through numbers. John copied them down.

"Got them."

Sherlock's voice came faintly from his room. "Leave John a number where you can be reached. We'll be in touch."

John took down Jabesh's number and escorted the client to the door. His eyes were wide and his expression shell-shocked. "What was it about the red hair that got his attention?"

John shrugged. "I have no idea, but he's like that. Have a good day Mr. Wallace."

Client gone, John ran up the stairs, two at a time. Sherlock was rummaging through his room with no regard for what might be damaged in his frantic search. John sighed, glad he wasn't the one cleaning it up later.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was muffled by something. "Call the other laborers. See what you can find out."

"All right. What about you?"

"I'm going undercover." With that, Sherlock shuffled  into the living room. John looked him up and down.

"Hmm."

"What do you see?"

Sherlock was dressed in faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Where had he gotten that anyway? Harry sometimes wore them, but he'd never seen the like on Sherlock. A worn leather belt on the verge of falling apart barely held up the jeans, which were too large around the waist and a bit short on his legs. Work boots on his feet and a ragged jumper completed the image.

"Well, hard to say, Sherlock. No one will recognize you. That's for sure."

"Think, John. What do you deduce?"

As he spoke, he slumped slightly. John was amazed to see that Sherlock now looked several inches shorter.

"All right. From the clothes, you're a laborer of some sort." He reached out and took Sherlock's hands. Ignoring the thrill that ran through him at the touch, he said. "Going to have to do something about these. Too smooth. They'll give you away immediately."

"I was planning to add some callouses. Excellent observation."

"What? Do you have a disguise kit hidden away in there?"

"Of course."

"The clothes are clean. You're down on your luck. Looking for a job, perhaps? So you're trying to give a good impression. That's why you added the jumper. But you don't have anything better?"

"It's a start. I'll add a few final touches." His accent had changed from its usual refinement to something Northern and gravelly.

"I didn't realize you also had a talent for disguise, Sherlock."

His friend shrugged. "It's useful on occasion." He turned back to his room. "Just missing one detail."

He returned a moment later with a bright red wig covering his dark hair.

John shook his head. "Oh no. Definitely not a red head. It's not you at all."

"But it's vital."

John grinned. "I know. You're going to go to the agency and see if they still have a job opening."

"It's doubtful that they do, but word might have gotten round. When you call the others, inquire how they found out about the job. Text me."

"Hide your phone. The character you're playing couldn't afford it."

Sherlock started out of the room but tossed one last comment over his shoulder. "Perhaps it was a gift from an estranged sister. Like someone else's."

"Yeah, remind me of that. Thank you."

Flat sharing with Sherlock had made his pension go farther, but he was still hardly rolling in money. He'd do more part-time work at the hospital, but Sherlock monopolized so much of his time that he could never get more than a few hours a week. He frowned. Why did he let him control so much of his life?

Back to the topic he did not want to think about. Sighing, he picked up his phone to make some calls.

One of the men didn't answer, but the other did, and he soon had the information Sherlock was looking for.

_Word of mouth. Someone told them there was work for red heads_

A moment later:

_You're certain the call was for red heads_

_SH_

John chuffed to himself. His flatmate had a real problem accepting information he didn't get on his own.

_Yes_

Almost immediately:

_Of course you were certain. I do trust you_

_SH_

Odd how he so often signed his messages, even when John would know perfectly well who they came from.

A beep.

_Find out everything you can about the agency. Text me anything relevant, if you think I'll need it for this._

_SH_

John sighed and turned back to his laptop. Research would distract him from the warmth that went through him at the words "I do trust you." From Sherlock that was the next best thing to "I love you." And since there was no way he'd say those three words, John contented himself with what his friend could say.

***

Unfortunately, he didn't find anything particularly useful about Spauldings. They had been in business for almost ten years. They specialized in placing unskilled labor and administrative type jobs. They had an acceptable rating by all the appropriate rating agencies.

Beep.

_Anything?_

_SH_

John fumbled for his phone and texted back, almost without looking, as he used the other hand to click another link.

_No. Usual stuff. Boring_

The link took him to another page with unhelpful information.

_I've got a bit more. Coming back._

_SH_

"Okay," John said absently, not thinking about Sherlock not being able to hear him.

_Call the client. Ask him where his jobs were._

_SH_

John finished reading the page he was on. Still nothing useful. Sighing, he picked up the phone and called Mr. Wilson.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Wilson, it's John Watson."

"Have you anything?" Jabesh asked, repressed excitement clear even over the phone connection.

"I'm not certain. Sherlock has been doing some research, and he wanted me to ask you where your jobs had been located."

"I'm not sure how it helps, but most of them was in Chelsea."

John sat up at that. Chelsea was a wealthy area. They'd be likely to have their own crews for street cleaning and light handyman type labor. So why had Jabesh and his fellows been hired?

"D'you think it helps?"

"It might." John wasn't sure what to make of it, but he was pretty sure Sherlock would. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That's been helpful. We'll ring as soon as we know something else."

"All right. You have a good evening then."

John glanced out at the window in surprise. It was getting dark. He'd lost track of time in his research. He closed down the windows with his fruitless efforts and opened up his blog. There wasn't much to write about this case yet, but he thought he'd get something down and then fix dinner. Sherlock wouldn't be hungry, but he'd probably eat if something were in front of him.

Anyway, John didn't want to be too alone with his thoughts now.

***

Sherlock arrived back at 221B right as John was putting the finishing touches on a simple meal. Beans on toast, green salad with a light dressing and, of course, tea.

"Did you speak with the client?" Sherlock asked as he swept through the room and into his bedroom, presumably to change.

"Yes," John called from the kitchen.

Sherlock popped his head around the corner. "Why didn't you text me?"

John put the food on the table. "I guess I forgot. Was thinking about dinner. It wasn't much anyway, but maybe you'll be able to get something from it."

"What did he say?"

"He said all their jobs were in Chelsea. That struck me as strange. Don't they have their own crews?"

"Yes, they do." Sherlock came into the kitchen, back in his usual outfit of black suit and white shirt. John was glad to see it again. Sherlock dressed any other way just wasn't himself. He ignored the sudden chill that crawled down his spine. That was the point of disguise, right?

"Well, I didn't know what to make of it, but I thought you might."

John handed over a plate of food, and Sherlock began to eat, his motions mechanical.

"Did you learn anything at the agency?"

Sherlock's eyes were looking at him, but John knew he wasn't seeing anything in the room. He was in that other place, that place he went during his deductions. John took a bit of beans, a sip of tea and just waited.

A minute or so later, his friend's eyes returned to Baker Street. "Brilliant, John! I think you hit on something important."

"I did?" His heart skipped a beat, the way it always did when Sherlock complimented him.

"Yes. It is important where they were working."

"Why?" He knew how to be a good audience and ask the right questions at the right time.

"The agency didn't tell me much we didn't already know. They used to have jobs for red-heads, but that contract was over now. They took my name and information for later, but they couldn't promise anything. Then there was a loud noise outside, and the admin went to take a look. I had a few seconds to scan the papers on her desk, and one name jumped out at me. William Morris."

John frowned. Something about the name tugged at him. It was quite ordinary, and yet...

"The thief, John," Sherlock gently prompted.

Of course. The papers had been full of his exploits over the last few months. He'd made some high profile heists, and all London had been talking about it. John frowned and got up to get the paper. Hadn't he been reading about a robbery earlier today?

Sherlock watched him. "What?"

John moved aside some files on the desk. Most of them were private cases they were working on. Ah! There it was. He pulled out the copy of the Times and flipped to the third page. He handed it to Sherlock.

The detective read over the article quickly and smiled. "And again, John."

"You think that's it?"

"I do. Did you notice where the robbery took place?"

John gasped. "Of course. Sloan Square."

"Exactly."

"So Jabesh was a distraction?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. More of a decoy. Look at my hand over here and what it's doing while I make the rabbit disappear over there."

John frowned. "Then you think Morris was hired on by one of the firms that does maintenance in Chelsea. But that doesn't make sense. Why didn't he just do the job himself? Why the decoy?"

Sherlock was busy sending a text. "I have an idea. I'll let you know if I'm right in a moment."

He paced back and forth for the several minutes it took to get a response. John stopped watching him after the third pass. It was making him dizzy. Instead, he went to make more tea.

"We're out of milk again."

"I know. I used it for an experiment."

John thought about asking and decided he really didn't want to know.

He was just coming back from the kitchen with two cups when Sherlock's phone beeped. A second later, his friend pumped his fist into the air in a victory gesture.

"Yes!"

John handed him the cup. "Apparently your theory was correct."

"Of course it was correct. I'm never wrong."

"Yes, you are."

Sherlock glared at him. "For that, I shouldn't tell you."

John smiled at him. "But you will. Because you need an audience to appreciate your cleverness."

"True." A pause, then he handed over the phone.

John read the texts.

_Is William Morris on your radar screen?_

_SH_

_Yes. Been watching him for a couple weeks now. He's been doing manual labor. Not sure why_

_GL_

Then one more came in while he was reading.

_Have you some idea, and do you care to share?_

John handed the phone back, and Sherlock sent back a reply. John didn't need to read it to know it said:

_I'll share when I'm good and ready_

_SH_

"So he's been using the red-haired laborers as a decoy to keep the police occupied while he was planning and carrying out the robbery."

"Yes. And being having been hired by one of the firms that works the area gave him legitimate credentials to move around. Obviously he forged a set for his decoys."

"He could have just forged a set for himself."

"True, but look at his prior jobs. He likes adding unnecessary complications to make the jobs more challenging." Sherlock glanced off into space for a moment. "Something I'd probably do in similar circumstances."

"Yes, you'd make a wonderful master criminal, but let's stay focused on stopping this one."

His friend's eyes snapped back. "Right. Now I just need to check on two more things, and we'll have this wrapped up."

"Where he's hiding?"

"Yes, and who's fencing the coins. Morris won't be doing it himself. Fencing is boring."

"Let Lestrade work on the fence then. You work on the hideout. Assuming he's still in town."

Sherlock's fingers were already flying over his phone's keypad. "Oh he is. He's got another job planned."

"He does?"

"Yes, John. Pay attention. Look at the paper. It's perfectly obvious."

John sighed and grabbed the paper. He found it on page 5. "Rare Jewel Collection Arriving Today."

Sherlock was answering a text, presumably from Lestrade. "Have it yet?"

"Yes. You're right. It was obvious."

"Refer back to earlier conversation."

John blinked but then got it. He thought about saying something and then decided against it. There were times to work at winning their verbal spars, and there were other times he was better off admitting defeat.

Mind you, if Sherlock was always right, why had he needed to ask earlier if John loved him?

"Because I wanted to hear you say it, and you weren't saying it on your own."

John looked up to see Sherlock regarding him, eyes blue in this light with no hint of green. His friend stepped closer, reaching out with one long finger to gently touch the middle of John's forehead. "You get a particular furrow right here when you're thinking about it."

"I do?" John wondered how Sherlock knew it meant...well, what he'd just said it meant. He also desperately wanted to ask the logical follow up question, but he was afraid of the answer. And anyway, Sherlock was already wrapping his scarf around his neck as he walked to the door.

"Coming? I have an idea of where to find the hideout."

John sighed and grabbed his coat.

"Better bring your gun too. Might be dangerous."

Of course it would be. So he got his gun and followed Sherlock, who was already out on the street, calling a cab.

***

"So where do you think it is?"

"Newham. It was one more thing on the paper besides Morris' name. I knew it was important, but I didn't know why at the time. Didn't have all the information to draw a proper conclusion."

John nodded. "Okay then, but it's a pretty big area. Hope you've got more than that."

"I don't. Not yet. But as soon as Lestrade texts me back, I'll have it."

Just then his phone beeped, and Sherlock smiled as he read the text. "Perfect, I know exactly where." He gave the cabbie an address.

John just stared at him.

"Oh pay attention, John."

"Well, I haven't read the text, have I?"

Sherlock snorted. "No, and even if you had, your pathetic little brain won't have made the proper connections."

John's smile didn't falter. Most people would resent being called "pathetic." Good thing John Watson wasn't most people.

"All right then. The fence is someone called Benny the Ghoul."

John blinked. "Odd name."

"Yes, well, he's known for liking sushi and steak tartar. Liking it so much that people think it's ghoulish how much he likes raw meat."

"Okay." John drew out the word. "And that gives you a precise location how?"

"I helped Lestrade put away Benny a couple years ago. He got out after just a few months of course. He's too valuable to the criminal underworld, and they bought a judge to win him a favorable appeal."

"Charming."

"Not the word most people use to describe him. Anyway, Benny is a creature of habit, and he always uses the same safe house. I never gave that bit up to Lestrade. I knew Benny'd be out soon enough, and I wanted to keep something I could use to find him later."

"And Benny's safe house is in Newham"

"Exactly. He's the most likely fence for goods of that nature, but I wanted to be sure. No need to waste time roughing him up if I'd been wrong."

John grinned. "Refer back to previous conversation."

Sherlock just grinned back and didn't say anything.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled up and Sherlock jumped out, leaving John to pay the fare. He hurried after his friend, glancing around, all his senses on high alert, and his instincts telling him something was going to happen.

"Sherlock." He hissed the word, hoping just this once his friend wouldn't dive heedlessly into danger.

For once, it worked, and Sherlock slowed down. "You're the soldier." His voice was low, just barely enough for John to hear. "How do you think this should go down?"

John let himself relax and go into the tactical place. He supposed it was something like where Sherlock went when he was deducting. He let his mind go still, and he took in everything around him.

Few street noises. Minimal passersby. Good. Unlikely any innocents would be hurt.

Building. Two stories. No lights in adjacent building. Lights only visible on ground floor of their target, in front, presumably near the front door. Probably a parlor or living room. Faint sound of a TV running. _Law & Order: UK_.

He glanced at his watch. 45 minutes past the hour.  Good. Nearing climax of the episode. Greatest distraction. Entry could be loud, and they'd still have at least a minute before anyone could respond. Plenty of time.

One shadow flitted across the window, from left to right. Likely heading to the kitchen. He factored that into his plan. It wouldn't change much. Still possible.

He came back to himself to see Sherlock's eyes fastened on him, expression hungry. For a moment, John couldn't even breathe. He felt a familiar pull in his stomach. And down lower.

"Is that...like what I do? Where I go?"

John shook his head, trying to come back to the conversation. "I expect so. It's hard to say for certain since I'm not you, but I suppose it is."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He swallowed hard and then said, "Conclusions?"

"How many do you think will be in there?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Four. Three red-haired men and Benny."

John nodded. "That's what I thought too. I'll kick in the front door. Three of them are to the left. I'll cover that direction. You follow me and guard my right side."

Sherlock spread his empty hands. "With what?"

John glanced around quickly, saw a length of pipe lying nearby. He pointed at it with his gun. "With that. Odds are the people with guns are on the left. The one coming from the other direction is likely to be unarmed."

Sherlock picked up the length of pipe. "You're the soldier."

"Yes, I am. We need to go in the next two minutes. Before the end of _Law & Order_."

Sherlock's eyes shone in the diffuse street light. Again, he started to speak but stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing. I concur. Let's go."

Everything went almost as choreographed. John kicked in the door and covered the left. There were three men in there, two with red hair, huddled around the telly. They were taken completely by surprise. One tried to go for a weapon, but John shot him without hesitation. It wasn't Morris, so he didn't worry about Sherlock being upset with him later.

Sherlock moved in after him, cut to the right. John heard the whoosh of the pipe swinging, and the crash of a body dropping.

Good. All of them present and accounted for.

Which, of course, was when a fifth man, also red-haired, appeared from the hall bathroom and shot John.

***

John's awareness slowly swam toward consciousness. He struggled to place himself in recent memory. He remembered the pain of being shot and a vague image of Sherlock's face looming over him.

He listened. The familiar beep of a heart monitor. The steady drip of an IV bag. Other hospital sounds.

All right. That was sound. Now about feeling. Pain in his side, but distant, as if it belonged to another John Watson. Drugs then. His throat hurt, but his fuzzy mind couldn't put a reason to that, so he let it go for now.

Dimly, he sensed someone else in the room. Sherlock? That thought made his heart skip a beat, though in his drugged confusion, he wasn't sure why.

He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, but if he squinted, he could force some focus.

"Ah. You are back with us."

Mycroft. Not the Holmes brother John had been hoping for. He struggled to sit up.

"A moment." Mycroft walked over and adjusted the tilt on the bed. Now John could see his perfectly pressed suit and impassive mien. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

Mycroft nodded once and returned to his seat by the window.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"He's fine. No need to worry. He's with Lestrade, interrogating the fellows you picked up on your 'case.'"

John could clearly hear the quotes around the word. "Oh." His disappointment surprised him. "Why are you here?" He had to work at getting the words out through the dryness in his mouth.

"They said you could have water when you awoke. Would you like me to bring you some?"

"Yes. Thank you." Formality with Mycroft always seemed required.

The other man walked to a nearby table, poured a glass and brought it to John, who managed to steady his hand enough to drink without aid. He didn't think his pride could manage Mycroft holding his glass for him.

The water helped the dryness in his mouth but did nothing for his throat. "Do you know anything about what happened at the flat?"

Mycroft returned to his seat, shrugging one of his narrow shoulders. "Only what little my brother saw fit to tell me. Apparently there was an extra man, who shot you and ran. Sherlock took your gun, fired at him, missed, but managed to convince the others the same fate befell them."

John frowned. Sherlock shot someone? Well, if he was with Lestrade interrogating someone then he obviously wasn't in too much trouble.

Mycroft continued. "And in answer to your earlier question, I am here because my brother requested it." A slight frown. "Though request might not be quite the right word."

"Bordered on an order, did it?" John allowed himself a slight smile at the image of Sherlock bullying his brother.

"No matter.  I had my own reasons for wanting to come."

John cocked his head. "Really? And those would be?"

"I understand that you have developed feelings for my brother."

"How do you..." John broke off. No, he really didn't want to know. Instead, he sighed and started again. "I suppose you could call them that. Not that I expect them to be reciprocated. And if you must know, I don't intend to act on them in any way."

"And why not?"

John blinked, assuming he'd given the answer Mycroft had been looking for. "Well, because I value our friendship too much. I'd rather not muck that up with...well...stuff that would get in the way."

"Why do you assume your feelings are not reciprocated?" Mycroft's voice was bland, but John thought he heard an undercurrent of something. Amusement?

"This is Sherlock we're talking about. He's your brother. You of all people should know he doesn't feel emotions that way. Sherlock in love? I assume he feels something akin to affection for me. But love?" He scoffed. "No, not him."

Mycroft tilted his head, an oddly bird-like gesture. "For all that you know my brother well, perhaps better than any outside his family, there is still much you do not know about his history. Are you aware that he has, in fact, been in love before?"

"No." John could barely believe he'd heard aright.

"He has. Once. A woman. It didn't end well."

John shifted, trying to find a comfortable position where the wound didn't hurt. He figured he was close to needing a new dose of pain medication, but he didn't want to stop Mycroft.

"I imagine it didn't. Sherlock being who he is."

Mycroft shook his head. "Oh no. He didn't end it. She did."

"That doesn't surprise me either."

"But his reaction to it might."

John raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I'll bite. What was his reaction?"

"You've heard him refer to himself as a 'high-functioning sociopath' before, correct?"

John blinked at the apparent non sequitur. "Yes."

"Then you know that one of the defining characteristics of a sociopath is that they don't believe anyone else is truly real?"

"Yes." John was surprised at how uncomfortable this conversation was making him. He knew these things about Sherlock, of course, but the labels struck him as unnecessarily limiting.

"Indulge me for a moment longer. I do have a point here."

"All right. Good."

Mycroft regarded him levelly, but John thought he caught a hint of some emotion in his blue eyes. Pity?

"I believe the description has some accuracy. Oh, Sherlock would not kill anyone, contrary to Ms. Donovan's belief, but I am his brother. I grew up with him. No, the rest of the world is not quite real to him."

"He says it's maintaining a distance." It sounded weak even as he said it.

"That's his way of defining it in socially acceptable terms."

"Get to your point, Mycroft."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "I thought perhaps you would have gotten it by now, John."

John was again reminded how similar were Sherlock and his brother. Both had that irritating way of making it clear you'd missed the obvious. "Pardon me. I've been shot. Not at my best right now."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Of course. My mistake. Well, then, think of it this way. To love, you must be able to connect with someone. It's difficult to connect with someone, in a meaningful way, who isn't real. With me so far?"

John nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes. So to love someone, you need to feel they are real." Then he got it, and his mouth suddenly went dry again, but he didn't think a glass of water was going to fix this.

"I see you have gone there. For Sherlock to love someone, she...or he...must be real. Imagine the devastation when the only real thing in your world suddenly departs."

"Yes, I could see where that would be a problem." He thought it through for a moment. "So you're saying I'm real to Sherlock."

"Of course. He listens to you, solicits your thoughts, advice and opinions. He recognizes that your social skills are far superior to his and he relies on you to check the worst in him."

John flashed to several memories of Sherlock glancing at him.

_"Not good?"_

_"Bit not good."_

"All right. I think I see what you mean. But just because he thinks I'm real doesn't automatically mean he loves me."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow and cocked his head but said nothing. John felt like he was back in school and had just gotten the answer wrong. Again.

So he thought it through. He'd examined Sherlock's behavior before, and he'd even done it in an attempt to figure out what Sherlock thought of him. But he'd never allowed himself to factor in the word "love." This time he did.

The first time Sherlock had seen him and the way his eyes had done the "thing" that indicated analysis.

Sherlock immediately accepted him as a flat mate.

Their first case. Sherlock invading his space to ask him if he wanted to see more danger. Sherlock rarely got physically close to people, unless he had a reason.

Evaluating looks from across the room or table. The times John had caught the tail end of a curious expression he hadn't quite been able to read.

Sherlock never correcting people's assumptions that they were "a couple" where he'd immediately correct other mistakes or wrong assumptions.

Finally, the anguish in his eyes when he told John he had only one friend.

John sighed. If Sherlock had a been a girl, he'd have had no doubt.

"I see you have come to some conclusion."

"Yeah, but I'm a guy, and you said the one time he'd been in love, it was a woman."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? It's a fundamental consideration."

Mycroft's voice was patient, as if to a particularly unintelligent child. "Not for my brother. Think it through, John. In your entire life, only a handful of people have ever been real. Gender is just body parts. Do you really think Sherlock cares about that? It's not your body that makes you real. It's who you are inside, and that…that transcends gender."

John thought it a bit disingenuous to relegate gender to just bits and bobs, and he said so. Thoughts, feelings and a way of looking at the world factored in as well.

"True. But when it comes to such things, I'm not sure my brother draws distinctions between 'male' traits and 'female' ones. Oh, he will, if it has bearing upon a case, but other than that?" He shrugged.

John had to admit he had a point there. Sherlock seemed to ignore gender unless it impacted something he was working on. Other than that, he was indifferent.

"All right. I see that. So what did he do when the woman left him?" It had seemed that this was the point of Mycroft's dissertation.

"Locked himself in his room and refused to come out, or eat, for more than a week. He was still living at home, having just finished university. Mummy finally had someone come over to break down the door. When she saw him, she called me. He'd lost nearly 15 pounds and looked it."

John waited, not sure what to say.

"It took me another three days to convince him to eat. I thought we'd lose him. Fortunately, his bathroom adjoined the room, and he did occasionally remember to drink something. Just enough to keep himself alive. I had to bully him to go to hospital." Mycroft's eyes clouded with memory. "It was the first, and only, time I ever saw him cry. Even as a child, he never did. I held him for hours while he cried, in absolute silence, by the way, on my shoulder."

"What happened to the girl?"

"An excellent question. I convinced her to leave the country. I think she finally went to Australia."

John didn't let himself think too long on what form that "convincing" must have taken.

"So the point of this?"

"Again, I think it's obvious." He waited. John waited. Finally Mycroft sighed. "You have it in your power to hurt my brother very badly. More than almost anyone else."

John shied away from that thought for a moment as his thoughts skittered to another question. "Who else is real to him? You, I assume."

"Probably. We wouldn't get under each other's skins so much otherwise."

John didn't like the way he said "we." Sherlock and his brother were very much alike. Was Mycroft also a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise?

"Mrs. Hudson, I think." Mycroft went on. "Perhaps Lestrade, though I'm less sure of that."

Lestrade? John wasn't sure. Then he remembered the last case they'd worked with him. Sherlock had actually called him "Greg." Sherlock rarely used first names, and had actually bothered to remember it from the encounter in the town near Baskerville. Hmm. Food for thought.

His wound stabbed at him, a sudden reminder that it might like some attention.

"All right. Kind of a short list, but all right."

"Short, yes. But of all of them, I believe you are the most real. And if you doubt his love for you, then you are a fool, Dr. Watson, and I do not think my brother would let himself love a fool."

No, probably not. John was seriously not sure what to think. He'd barely come to grips with his own feelings about Sherlock, and now he had to face the rather daunting fact that they might be returned. Add in the fact that he could hurt him badly, and he rather wished he could just pull the covers up and pretend the world was somewhere else.

Then another thought struck him. "You really care for him, don't you?"

Mycroft did the eyebrow thing again. "Of course. He is my brother. He's not easy to love, but I do love him. Perhaps you thought otherwise?"

"Well, the first time we met, you did offer me money to spy on him. That's not generally the act of a loving brother."

Mycroft appeared honestly confused. "Didn't I say I worry about him constantly? That's quite true. And, it was a test."

Now John got it. "And if I'd said yes?"

"I understand Australia is lovely this time of year."

John felt a chill go through him.

Just then he heard footsteps, rapid and confident, outside. Both turned in the direction of the door to see Sherlock stride into the room. John watched him, keeping the recent conversation in mind. Sherlock's eyes immediately went to him and looked him over thoroughly. His shoulders relaxed, and he turned to his brother. John knew when he'd been analyzed. Sherlock's first thought had been to make sure he was all right. Hardly concrete proof of Mycroft's contention, but certainly suggestive.

He ignored the feel of the elder Holmes' eyes on him.

"Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his tone icy. “That will be all. You might want to have a chat with Lestrade."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Because I think we uncovered a plot to steal the Crown Jewels. Don't they go on display in some number of months?"

Mycroft's eyes rose. "No one was supposed to know of that."

"Oh, brother mine. Your plans are so obvious, it's a wonder the entire criminal underworld doesn't hear of them."

Mycroft stood, twirling his umbrella. "As it happens, I had other reasons to speak with the Detective Inspector." He nodded to John. "Good day, Dr. Watson. Think about what I've said."

"I will."

"Call Mummy, Sherlock. She keeps asking about you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John knew he would call later. He'd never met Mrs. Holmes, but he sensed she had interesting place in both brothers' hearts. He just couldn't quite figure out the exact nature of it.

As soon as Mycroft was gone, Sherlock took several quick steps and perched on the side of the bed. "How soon will they let you out? Morris was the one who shot you, and he escaped out the back. I have some ideas of where he might be, but we'll need to hurry."

A wave of pain and weakness washed over John. Now that Mycroft was gone, and he didn't need to engage in verbal sparring, he let himself slump. Sherlock glanced him over again and rang the call button.

"You're due for more pain medication."

"Yeah, and as for how long until they'll let me out, I don't even know exactly what's wrong with me."

His friend frowned. "Mycroft didn't tell you?"

"Uh, no. He seemed more interested in another topic."

The nurse arrived before Sherlock could say anything else. "Ah, Dr. Watson, time for more meds." She bustled about, taking vitals, nodding and humming to herself. She injected something into his IV and smiled. "There. I'm sure you'll be up and about in no time."

She started to say more, but a look at Sherlock's face sent her fleeing. John was glad for it.

"I hate cheery nurses."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Which means you prefer the other kind?"

John thought he should be annoyed, but the pain killers were starting to work, suffusing him with the most delightful warmth. He figured he'd drift off soon, but before he did, he wanted the report. "So what's wrong with me?"

Sherlock had wandered to the window while the nurse had bustled about, but now he came back. "Bullet in your left side. Cracked several ribs, one of which punctured a lung. You stopped breathing in the ambulance, and they had to intubate you."

That explained the sore throat. "Wait a minute. They let you in the ambulance."

A quick grin. "I said I was your husband. They waved me right in."

Surprise penetrated the growing heaviness all through his body. "You said that?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason at all." John's eyes started to close. He dimly felt Sherlock's hand grip his.

"You'll be out of here in no time. I'm sure. Sleep well, John. Get better for me."

John wasn't sure he'd really heard that right, but he was asleep before he could work it out.

***

Again, he drifted toward consciousness. Again, he heard the sounds of a hospital room and was aware of another presence. This time he felt considerably better, the pain less and easier to bear.

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing, gazing out the window.

"How long have you been here?"

"All night." He didn't turn around.

John blinked, not having expected that. He tried to work out what day it was and how long he'd been out.

"It's Sunday morning."

He'd been shot Friday evening, and he guessed it had been Saturday evening that he'd had the chat with Mycroft. "Morris?"

Sherlock turned around, his gaze bright with...something. "Still on the loose. I have the Homeless Network keeping an eye on him. As soon as you're discharged, we'll go pick him up."

"Why wait?"

"I thought you'd want to be there for it." He said it as if it was the only logical conclusion.

"Guess I do, but I'm not sure it was a good idea to leave a criminal on the loose while I recover."

"It's fine."

Something was off, and John struggled to a sitting position. Three quick strides, and Sherlock was there, steadying him and adjusting the pillows.

"Thanks." He looked at his friend. "What's wrong?"

He didn't expect an answer, but Sherlock surprised him. "You had a talk with Mycroft."

It wasn't a question. "Of course. You sent him to me, didn't you?"

"Yes." Several questions hung in that one word. John sighed, deciding this was an odd place to have the conversation, but it was no odder than having it with his brother.

"He mentioned something about...well...about love."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. Okay, that was weird. He'd expected the opposite reaction. Then he figured it out.

"You wanted Mycroft to talk to me." Anger went through him. "Because it's easier to have Mycroft say it than to say it yourself."

Sherlock turned away, and his shoulders slumped. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "John, you know that emotions aren't easy for me to deal with."

"True, but, damn it. You forced me to talk about them."

"Yes, I did."

Just then the nurse bustled in, all paperwork and prescriptions and cheer. "We're discharging you in a few minutes, dearie. Just look over these instructions." She glanced at Sherlock. "And your partner'd better look them over too. You'll be needing some help for several days."

Neither John not Sherlock bothered to correct her. John glanced over the instructions. They were basically what he expected. Then he looked at the prescriptions. Antibiotic and pain killers. He handed back the painkiller script. "These don't work on me. How about..." and he suggested something else milder. He didn't want to be fuzzy headed for the next few days.

She gave him the look experienced nurses give recalcitrant patients.

"I am a doctor."

"Of course you are. And you make the worst patients."

"I've also been injured before, as you can see from my chart, and I know what will and won't work. Sugar pills would work about as well what he prescribed. I could write my own script, but I'd rather not have to."

"All right. I'll run it by your doctor."

"You do that."

She left in something of a huff, and John swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sherlock wordlessly handed him clean clothes.

"Thank you." With some effort, John managed to get dressed. He noted his friend had brought his favorite jumper. Sherlock helped him with shoes and socks since leaning over made his head swim alarmingly.

Once he was dressed and on his feet, testing his balance, he looked at his friend. "We'll talk when we get home. This isn't the right place for it anyway."

Sherlock said nothing, and for once, John wasn't at all sure what he was thinking.

The nurse returned with a new prescription, and John signed all the paperwork. "We'll stop by a chemist's on the way home."

He put up with the annoyance of being wheeled out of the hospital and climbed into the cab.

Settling back into the seat, he closed his eyes. Sherlock was texting someone.

"Who's that, then?"

"Lestrade." He glanced up from his phone and gave the cabbie an address.

He opened his eyes and looked at his friend. "Hey! I thought we were going home."

"Morris first."

John sighed. He knew that tone of voice. Nothing would shift Sherlock now. Better to just go along with it. He didn't feel up to an argument right now anyway.

Eyes closed, John dozed until he felt a hand gently shaking him awake. Nice of Sherlock to shake his uninjured side.

"John, we're here."

He opened his eyes and glanced out the window. A non-descript house on an ordinary street.

"You're sure this is the right place?"

A car pulled up, and Lestrade got out. Sherlock climbed out, leaving John to struggle out on his own.

"What's he doing here?" Lestrade asked as he walked over.

"I'm doing fine. Thank you for asking." John said.

Lestrade flushed slightly. "Yeah, sorry about you getting shot and all." He glared at Sherlock. "If this one wouldn't go off half-cocked all the time..."

Sherlock was looking up at the top floor of the building. "Better get around the back. He's fleeing."

Lestrade stopped his tirade and headed to the left, the shortest way around the building. As soon as his back was turned, Sherlock handed John his gun.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Use it, if needed, of course. I thought that was obvious." Sherlock's voice was distant, as if he was barely paying attention to what was going on. Then he moved to the right, the opposite of where Lestrade had gone.

The world started swimming, and John leaned against Lestrade's car, his gun down by his side, out of sight of the casual passerby, but ready if he needed it.

As it happened, he didn't. A few minutes later, Sherlock and Lestrade both emerged from the back of the house, a red-haired man between them. He was struggling, but it wasn't doing any good. John hastily slipped his gun into his jacket pocket. He was pretty sure Lestrade knew he had it, but he didn't see any reason to draw attention to it. Especially since he was pretty sure Sherlock had...appropriated...it from the evidence room. He'd assumed this particular gun was gone for good.

Everything wrapped up fairly neatly after that. Lestrade didn't ask too many questions about how Sherlock had known where to find Morris. Soon after the capture, they were in another cab, finally on their way home. John dozed again, sleeping right through the stop to get his medicines.

Once home, Mrs. Hudson fussed over him, settling him in his chair, with a fresh cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Sherlock vanished into his room and didn't come back out until she was gone. He walked over to the window, picked up his violin and started to play something mournful.

John washed down a pill with a swallow of tea and munched a biscuit, waiting for Sherlock to say something.

Nothing, just the plaintive wail of the violin.

"Sherlock,” he finally said.

The detective continued to play.

"Sherlock. Enough." He put some of his former military command into his voice, and his friend finally put down the instrument and moved to his chair. He perched in it, raptor-like, eyes fixed on John's face.

He felt a flush go through his entire body. It was always unsettling, and strangely appealing, to have the detective's entire attention. He cleared his throat.

"Okay, I know you're rubbish about talking about emotions, but I had to put up with a very long, very uncomfortable conversation with your brother. You owe me for that."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the wall, where bullet holes still remained, then back to John.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Mycroft pretty well said that, well...he thinks you're in love with me."

"What do you think?"

This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. "It's not what I think that matters. It's more what you feel. You forced me to say it. Your turn."

Sherlock looked away and back again. He licked his lips. John tried, and failed, to remember a time he'd seen that.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "All right. Yes, I think I'm in love with you."

John let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. It wasn't the most satisfactory declaration of love he'd ever heard, but considering Sherlock, it was about the best he could hope for.

"You only 'think?'"

His friend got up and paced twice across the room. John forced himself to his feet and stood in his path. Sherlock stopped, and John stepped forward and put his hands on Sherlock's chest. "Hey. Stop. It's okay. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I don't know that I know, John. It only ever happened to me once."

"And it didn't end well. Yeah, I know that part."

Carefully, he put his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. He was careful to keep it low-key, little more than a hug between friends. He expected Sherlock to pull away immediately and was surprised to feel long arms surround him and hold on tightly, as if John were the one who might escape.

They stood there for a long moment. John wasn't sure what to do next. He'd never been in quite this situation before. With women, it had always seemed easy. Right about now, he'd try a kiss and see where that went. It didn't seem the appropriate thing to do with Sherlock.

Finally, his friend relaxed his grip and pulled back, just enough to look at John. "Sit down. You look like you might fall down." His voice was back to normal, sure and steady.

John went back to his chair and sat, hoping the world would stop swaying. This really wasn't the right time to be having this talk, but he didn't see that waiting would make it any easier.

"Didn't you tell Irene Adler..."

"The Woman."

John rolled his eyes. Whoops. Bad idea. That just made the dizziness worse. "Yes, I know you refuse to use her name. Doesn't mean I can't."

By now Sherlock had gone back to his seat and gave a nod that clearly indicated "get on with it."

"Anyway, you told her that love was a dangerous distraction." He cocked his head. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No. If anything, this is just more proof of the fact."

John blinked. "But you still think you're in love with me?"

A tiny shrug. "Yes. I do." An abashed look. "It seems as if I don't have as much control over that as I'd like."

John really wasn't sure how to take that. *If you're going to love him, you'll have to accept that it won't always be easy. Or pleasant,* he told himself.

He swallowed and pressed on. "Look. It's not like we have to...you know...send out announcements or anything. We can take it slow, if you'd like."

Sherlock's expression indicated he'd come to some sort of decision. "No need. A relationship is fine. It's not like things would change much, anyway."

John blinked. He'd just been told, by a man, that he was loved. And a few days ago, he'd told a man he loved him. And Sherlock thought nothing would change?

"What?"

John swallowed. "Just not sure what to think. I've never started a relationship quite like this before."

"I'm hardly like anyone you've been in love with before."

Understatement of the century.

Sherlock got up and walked to the window and his violin.

John considered. He did love Sherlock. He'd felt it for some time, but he'd always pushed the emotion away, assuming his flat mate didn't feel the same. Now that Sherlock had admitted to loving him, he could stop ignoring his feelings and figure out what being in a relationship with a high-functioning sociopath and the world's only consulting detective would look like.

A sudden thought hit him like a low blow to the gut.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes bright. "What?"

"But what about sex?"

"What about it, John?"

"Well we're not exactly talking about love between brothers here?"

A faint smile ghosted around Sherlock's lips. "No, we're definitely not."

John sighed. "All right. Maybe not the best analogy, considering, but you know what I mean."

Sherlock nodded slowly, his expression bored. "Of course I do. You believe that the kind of love we share requires sex. Do you desire me, John?"

This was what was still giving him fits. "No. I don't. No matter what I feel for you, I'm attracted that way to women." He ignored the memory of several...explicit fantasies. They didn't really mean anything. Did they?

"And I don't need sex, so let's leave it out of the picture, shall we?"

"I don't know if I can." John hated the weakness and uncertainty in his voice, but he couldn't help it.

Sherlock sighed, clearly still bored by the whole conversation. John appreciated again how much Sherlock must love him, to continue this without stalking off in a huff. "All right. Let's try this. What about that series you like so much? Lincoln Rhyme?"

John knew where he was going with this, but stubbornly tried to deny it. "What about it?"

"You've said there's a love story in it. That girl loves him." Sherlock looked at him from under lowered brows. "Interesting how much Lincoln Rhyme resembles me, isn't it?"

John had been trying to ignore that fact ever since he started reading the series. Lincoln Rhyme was a criminalist, who, yes, solved crimes much like Sherlock. He was a quadriplegic, not that it slowed him down much. He has his assistant, Amelia Sachs, to walk crime scenes. They were also in love, a slowly developing romance that John rather enjoyed.

"Yes, all right, they do love each other." He deliberately ignored the implication that Lincoln was like Sherlock.

"But I doubt they have sex, correct?"

John shifted, wishing the pill he'd taken earlier would kick in. Sherlock gave him a sympathetic glance, but didn't let it go.

"Do they?"

"No! All right. No, they don't. Happy now?"

Sherlock stepped away from the window, knelt down in front of John and took his hand. The doctor stared at it, not sure he remembered him ever doing that before. "John, you know love doesn't require sex. You're just having trouble because, for you, it always has."

John closed his eyes and sat back, pointedly not letting go of Sherlock's hand.

"I've told you I don't require sex. What's the problem?"

John opened his eyes. "Me, Sherlock. I think maybe I do require it." He felt awful to say it, but it was true.

Sherlock didn't pull away, as John had feared he might. Instead, he settled himself on his haunches, squeezed his hand and said, "Of course you do.  You are young. You have a healthy sex drive. I have no concerns about you getting it elsewhere."

John's eyes widened. Had he heard that correctly? "Are you saying you'd be okay with me...dating women?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course." Then he added, his voice hesitant, "As long as you come back to me most nights."

John smiled. "If you're okay with me dating, I'm okay with coming home to you."

Damn! That sounded awfully like marriage, but warmth crept through John's body, and he rather liked the feel.

Sherlock let go, stood and up and went back to the window to pick up his violin. He started playing, something slow and romantic. John had never heard him play it before, but he liked it. He sat back in his chair, adjusted his position until he was as comfortable as his injuries would allow, closed his eyes and just enjoyed the music.

"Please get better quickly. Another case just came in on the website."

John smiled. It was fine. It was all fine.


End file.
